Page 4

Emma appears before I can respond, setting down a perfect cappuccino. Four sugars, extra foam—exactly how I need it. Steam rises from the cup, carrying memories of countless morning conversations in this booth. The familiar aroma makes my empty stomach clench.

"Have you eaten anything this morning?" Emma slides in beside me, her shoulder pressing against mine, grounding me. Vanilla and butter cling to her apron, making my mouth water.

"Coffee counts as breakfast." My fingers wrap around the warm mug, seeking comfort in its heat.

"No," Alisha interjects, shoving her plate toward me. "Coffee counts as survival. Eat the damn croissant before I force-feed you like I do my toddlers."

I tear off a piece of buttery pastry, more to stop their worried looks than from hunger. The flaky layers dissolve on my tongue, reminding my body how long it's been since I've eaten properly. My stomach growls traitorously.

"Look," Emma starts carefully, her voice gentle. "If Ares Saint is really moving back to Boston, we need to talk about how you're going to handle this. The city isn't that big—"

"Handle it?" Alisha snorts. "The only handling Bella needs to do is decide which knee to aim for if she runs into him. Personally, I vote for both."

"Alisha!" Emma shoots her a look. "That's not helping."

"Neither is pretending this is a Hallmark movie where everyone gets closure and hugs it out.

" Alisha leans forward, her green eyes fierce.

"Have you forgotten what Bella said his family did?

How they falsely accused her and destroyed Evelyn's reputation?

And how he just stood there and let it happen? "

"People can change," Emma says softly. "Fifteen years is a long time. Maybe talking to him could help her move past this. Get some answers—"

"Or maybe," Alisha cuts in, "she could keep being the badass artist who built herself up from nothing instead of reopening old wounds. The only reason to see Ares Saint is if she's planning to demonstrate exactly how much damage she can do with the four-inch heels she'll borrow from my closet."

My fingers reduce the croissant to buttery shards as they argue across the table. Part of me wants to embrace Alisha's anger, let it fuel me like it did all those years ago.

But another part—the traitorous part I've tried to silence—keeps remembering other moments. Stolen kisses behind the rose bushes. His fingers threading through my hair as he told me about his dreams of breaking free from his family's control. The way his eyes lit up when he saw my drawings.

"Bella?" Emma's voice breaks through my thoughts. "What do you think?"

"I think..." The words stick in my throat. How do I explain that I'm torn between wanting to punch him and wanting to know if he still has that crooked smile when he's truly happy? "I think I need more coffee."

"What you need," Alisha declares, "is to remember who you are now. The woman who turned pain into something beautiful. The artist who makes people feel things they can't explain with her art. You don't owe Ares anything—not closure, not conversation, not a single second of your time."

"You can't keep hiding in your apartment either," Emma says gently but firmly.

"This is your Boston—where you've built your career, your reputation, your life.

You need to own that space and not let anyone take it away from you.

Accept that you might run into him, but don't let the possibility of seeing him control your choices. "

I straighten my shoulders, feeling something fierce spark in my chest. "You're both right. I know you are. But just the thought of seeing his face makes me sick to my stomach and want to punch something at the same time. How's that for a healthy reaction?"

"Perfectly normal," Alisha says with a wicked grin. "Though if you want my opinion, someone should really consider neutering the entire Saint bloodline. You know, as a public service—prevent those particular genes from contaminating future generations."

Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up in my throat. "You're terrible."

"I prefer community-minded, " she corrects with a satisfied smirk.

"Can we please discuss solutions that don't involve assault charges?" Emma sighs, but there's a hint of amusement in her voice. "I'm just saying, maybe—"

"Maybe nothing," Alisha cuts her off. "The Saints are toxic. End of story."

They continue arguing, their voices washing over me as I stare into my coffee. The truth is, they're both right and both wrong. I'm stronger now, yes. But I'm also terrified of what seeing the man I once loved with my whole heart might do to the careful walls I've built around my heart.

"Fine," Emma concedes, raising her hands in surrender. "No forced reunions. But promise me you'll at least think about what you want to do if—when—you run into him."

"What I want," I say slowly, "is to not think about it at all." But even as I say it, I know it's impossible. Every street corner, every gallery event, every coffee shop could be where I see him again.

"Then don't think," Alisha declares. "Let's focus on something more important—like what you're wearing tonight."

My spine stiffens. "What's tonight?"

"Six-Pack." Alisha's red lips curve into a smile that would make lesser mortals run. "Amanda's already cleared it with Brian. Ladies' night, VIP booth, and those passion fruit martinis you've been avoiding for months."

"Alisha—" My protest comes out weak.

"Non-negotiable." She pulls out her phone, manicured nails tapping against the screen with military precision. "Besides, Amanda's already planning her outfit, and you know how she gets when she's excited."

I close my eyes, feeling the walls of inevitability closing in. My shoulders slump in defeat. When these three set their minds to something, resistance isn't just futile—it's impossible.

"Fine." I open my eyes to find them both grinning. The knot in my chest loosens slightly at their obvious satisfaction. "But I'm not dressing up."

"Honey," Alisha drawls, eyeing my paint-splattered ensemble with the kind of disdain usually reserved for discount knock-offs. "You're covered in what looks like an artistic breakdown. Trust me, anything would be an improvement."

"I hate you both," I mutter into my coffee, but warmth spreads through my chest, pushing back the cold that's been there since seeing his face on my news feed. The cappuccino doesn't taste like ash anymore.

"No, you don't." Emma squeezes my shoulder as she slides out of the booth, her baker's apron dusted with flour that leaves a mark on my sweater. "You love us because we keep you from becoming a paint-covered hermit who talks to her canvases."

"Speaking of which." Alisha stands, gathering her designer bag with a flourish that sends her bracelets jingling. "I need to get home before the twins convince their dad to let them 'redecorate' another room. Eight o'clock, Bella. Wear something that isn't splattered in an emotional crisis."

They're right, damn them. These women have been my anchors through every storm, my compass when I've lost my way.

Even now, watching them move through their morning routines—Emma back to her ovens, Alisha presumably to whatever chaos her twins have created—I feel something settle in my chest, like scattered pieces clicking back into place.

The morning crowd thins, leaving behind the comfortable sounds of cups clinking and quiet conversations.

Through the window, I watch Boston wake up fully, the morning sun painting the brick buildings in shades of gold that make my fingers itch for a brush.

Somewhere in this city, Ares Saint is probably waking up too. My stomach lurches at the thought.

My fingers drum against the table, an anxious rhythm that matches my pulse.

The need to paint claws at my insides, desperate for the release of color on canvas.

But maybe they're right. Maybe I need this—need to step away from the studio, from the memories bleeding onto my canvases.

Need to remember who I am beyond the girl he left behind.

I drain the last of my cappuccino, the warmth settling in my empty stomach. My muscles protest as I stand, stiff from days of painting and tension. Tonight, I'll let them drag me out. I'll drink those passion fruit martinis and pretend my world isn't shifting beneath my feet.

But first, I need a shower and a change of clothes to help me remember how to be something other than the mess I've become these past few days.

Because they're right about one thing—I'm not that sixteen-year-old girl anymore.

I straighten my shoulders, ignoring how they ache.

I'm Isabella Jenkins, artist and survivor.

The woman who turned her pain into paintings that art lovers appreciate.

The woman who built a life from the ashes of what his family destroyed.

Even if part of me still feels like I'm playing pretend.

The city bustles around me as I step out of Simply Irresistible, carrying the warmth of friendship and coffee like armor against the morning chill.

The air has lost some of its bite, or maybe I've just remembered how to breathe through the panic.

My boots click against the sidewalk, each step more purposeful than the last.

I lift my chin, jaw set with determination. Let Boston throw whatever it wants at me—including Ares Saint and all his family's drama.

I've survived them once.

I can do it again.

But as I turn the corner toward my apartment, a headline flashes across a newsstand: ARES SAINT SEEKS LOCAL BUSINESS INVESTMENTS. My heart stutters and my steps falter. The truth I've been avoiding hits me like a physical blow, making my knees weak:

Surviving him once was hard enough.

Surviving him while he's actively part of my city? That's a different war entirely.